


Surface

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Liu’s looking forward to seeing Himuro on all that open, non-regulation ice, darting around defensemen (well, other defensemen) like a slippery fish through fingers immersed in water, giving them a wide berth without having the boards to hem him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surface

**Author's Note:**

> himuliu day part 2!!
> 
> hockey au because i'm self-indulgent and i love hockey and it fits the two of them so well and.

The pond freezes over for the first time a week after the winter cup; every morning from his window Liu can see Coach Araki gingerly stepping onto the edges and testing it; every morning she seems unsatisfied and turns her back and every morning she’s even more impatient with them than usual on the practice rink, driving them hard and making them do more and more suicides until they all look like they might collapse. It’s working, though; either that or Liu’s just gone numb and it feels like he’s skating more smoothly. And then, about ten days after the freeze and a few days after the first big snow of the year, Coach tells them after morning practice that they’re going to the pond.

“The pond? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” says Himuro, aside to Liu, and, well—Liu had been in the same situation at the beginning of his first year, when he’d come into the frozen April and they’d started out on the rough surface and he’d thought he’d get cut for sure because he was really used to roller hockey or smooth arena-level ice washed over and over by a Zamboni.

“Coach knows what she’s doing,” says Liu.

Himuro still seems a bit nervous, in that slight, faking-it Himuro way—but really, he’s a good enough skater that he’ll be adequate, even on that surface (and that he’d learned inline skating on asphalt first should help, too). And Liu’s looking forward to seeing Himuro on all that open, non-regulation ice, darting around defensemen (well, other defensemen) like a slippery fish through fingers immersed in water, giving them a wide berth without having the boards to hem him in.

It doesn’t quite go that way—at first Liu’s concentrating on keeping his own balance because as much experience as he’s had skating on a pond he’s still used to the slick indoor surface. He looks at Himuro, skating out toward the other forwards—it’s not with the same quick confidence as usual; when he comes to a rough patch of snow he skates around it gingerly as if he’s afraid it’s going to crack under his skates like the top of a crème brulee. Coach has them doing drills, and Himuro’s line is matched up against the third pairing first—he looks bad, nearly wiping out on a typical rush before they can even try a poke check on him. He looks like he wants to slash the snow on the way to the back of the line, but keeps his cool—and keeps on his feet.

Liu’s not as out of practice as he’d initially thought; just from skating around a bit he gets used to the rough surface under his skates again, heading forward and back with relative ease, dishing out and taking hits in the center of the open ice. He misses a few passes because the puck’s not moving the way he’s used to, changing trajectories like a young child who keeps changing their mind—but everyone’s letting a few skip over their stick blades or beyond their reach. No one’s used to it. But no one’s as frustrated as Himuro is.

He’s the last one off the ice, stays even later than usual doing suicides, across the pond and back—Liu’s pretty sure he can’t feel his legs at this point; it’s been dark for an hour and even with the starkness of the white snow it feels heavy and slightly ominous. And when Himuro finally drags himself off the ice he looks ready to collapse, and first he tries to walk back to the dorm with his skates still on.

He doesn’t say anything as he fiddles with the laces, sweaty bare hands slipping—Liu digs his own hands out of his serviceably warm coat pockets to help, nails digging into the fraying black laces enough for Himuro to pull his feet out. He stuffs them into his boots immediately, not bothering to tie them or even waiting for Liu to do it for him (and he would have), grabbing his skates and replacing the guards before he stands up and heads off.

His hand is cold in Liu’s; they don’t make conversation as they usually do. The wind is picking up, shrieking at their backs and blowing powdered snow around their feet like flour in the kitchen. And when they finally get indoors and fall into bed, Himuro barely crawls under the covers, curling up and falling asleep instantaneously, and Liu wonders how the hell Himuro’s going to force himself out of bed tomorrow morning. And he’s pretty tired, too; he settles himself beneath the sheets next to Himuro’s warm body.

* * *

He wakes up no more sore than usual, but it’s not to the alarm or the cold or the sounds outside—the mattress dips and squeaks beside him; Himuro’s already up. He’s shoving on his boots, already dressed for morning skate—it’s still dark out; Liu shifts so he can eye the clock. There’s another hour until sunrise. Himuro picks up his stick and skates and gloves, and then he slips out the door like a puck just through the goalie’s five-hole and across the line.

The bed is warm; Liu doesn’t really want to go—but he’s not going to let Himuro stay out there himself for an hour and change, either. And so he gets up, goes into a stretch that turns into a shiver—it’s even worse when there’s no light out and no warm body to obnoxiously grab onto. So he gets dressed quickly, not bothering to check if his socks match or his boots are tied right (it’s not like he’ll be wearing them for very long anyway). From the window the pond still looks deserted; he’s got time to catch up.

Himuro’s doing shooting drills already by the time Liu gets down, skating end-to-end and trying to keep the puck on his stick even though he clearly still doesn’t trust the ice. He’s doing remarkably well (not remarkably well by his own standards for himself, Liu supposes, but nothing can measure up to those) but occasionally the puck will skip away as if it and the blade of Himuro’s stick are like poles of a magnet, and then he’ll recover (although the recovery time gets shorter and shorter as Liu watches). And in the low light the ice gleams like some kind of mystic apparition, and when light catches on the blades of Himuro’s skates and reflects back it looks even more mysterious. Liu sits on the rickety bench and changes into his skates; Himuro skates the length of the ice again, face turned toward the net, and roofs the puck into the netting. It’s a beautiful shot, rising like a jet from the runway, the kind of shot Himuro’s tried in games (and sometimes succeeded in pushing in). By the time Himuro’s gotten back to the other net, Liu’s stepped out onto the ice—it feels smoother than it did yesterday, although maybe it’s just his own comfort level speaking.

Himuro spins to a stop, turning smoother than a million-dollar car before stopping at the perfect angle to face Liu. “You ready?”

Liu nods.

He figures his comfort level on the ice will give him an advantage, or at least a relative one, considering how much better Himuro is at him (and how good Himuro is at besting him one-on-one). And it is; the first time Himuro catches him off-guard but the second time he reads his motion, gains speed backward, and blocks the shot with his stick. The sound echoes over the snow around them, too stark to be normal, strangely warped without the sound of other sticks on the ice and other people all around them breathing and slicing the ice with their feet. He gains the zone the other way, but Himuro’s fast and his desire to win trumps his discomfort at this point—he tries to muscle Liu off the puck. It doesn’t really work but he drags them away from the net, far enough away that when Liu does get a shot off it trickles to the side and Himuro gets there first.

They’ve been at this for a minute and a half (and it’s starting to wear on Liu; as much endurance as he’s built up he almost never takes shifts this long); Himuro lets Liu get ahead of him and waits back to take his shot—and it’s close enough for Liu to reach out and block it with his leg. The puck is several centimeters away from his flesh when he realizes he’s not wearing any pads, and it’s still not enough to prepare him for the jolt of pain as he sinks to a knee.

“Motherfucker.”

Himuro skates over to him, letting the puck roll away to wherever it’s going to go. Liu’s still gritting his teeth; he closes his eyes—fuck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I should have worn pads.”

Liu rises to his feet, and then opens his eyes—Himuro’s peering up at him in concern; his pursed lips and wide-open eye are really cute.

“I needed a break, anyway.”

Himuro probably did, too—he nods. Liu takes his hands, his gloves fitting around the edge of Himuro’s almost as well as they do around a stick, the shape they’ve taken after months of heavy use accustomed to something of this side. And Himuro begins to skate backwards. After a few seconds Liu tugs him to a stop.

“I should lead; I’m the defenseman.”

Even in the dark he can see the amusement in Himuro’s face. They glide around the pond at a slow pace, Himuro seemingly comfortable enough with the surface at this point. They don’t say anything, but Himuro still looks happy. For a second, it shines even brighter like the moon through a cloud—and then Liu’s heels catch on something that is definitely not ice and he falls back into a snowbank, pulling Himuro down on top of him.

Himuro’s laugh is clear and loud, like a shot off the crossbar.

“Shut up,” says Liu.

Himuro’s still laughing, the smile covering his cheeks—and then Liu kisses him. His face is cold but his mouth is warm inside.


End file.
